Alex Kava - A Perfect Evil

There it was-the slap he had been expecting for days. He wiped a hand across his jaw as if to erase the sting.

“I guess I figured as much, especially since my dad seems to be running his own investigation.”

“That’s another thing. Did you know he has Eddie and Lloyd tracking down this Mark Rydell guy?”

“Rydell? Who the hell’s Rydell?”

“I think he was a friend or partner of Jeffreys‘.”

“Jesus. Doesn’t anybody get it? Jeffreys didn’t kill all three-” He stopped when he saw Christine standing in the doorway.

“Relax, Nick. I’m not here as a reporter.” She hesitated, then came in. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red, her face tear-stained, her trench coat unevenly buttoned. She looked like hell.

“I need to do something. You have to let me help.”

“Can I get you some coffee, Christine?” Hal asked.

“Yes, thanks. That would be nice.”

Hal glanced back at Nick as if looking to be excused, then left.

“Come, sit down,” Nick said, resisting the urge to go to her and help her walk across the room. It unnerved him to see her this way. She was his big sister. He was the one always screwing up. She was the one who always held it together. Even when Bruce left. Now she reminded him of Laura Alverez-that unsettling quiet.

“Corby gave me a temporary leave of absence with pay from the newspaper. Of course, that was only after he made sure The Journal would have the exclusive on whatever happens.”

She struggled out of her coat, tossing it carelessly onto a chair in the corner and only staring at it when it slid to the floor. Then she paced in front of his desk, though she didn’t seem to have the energy to even stand.

“Any luck tracking down Bruce?” She avoided his eyes, but he already knew it was a touchy subject that his sister had no clue as to where her ex-husband was.

“Not yet, but maybe he’ll hear about Timmy on the news and get in touch with us.”

She grimaced. “I need to do something, Nick. I can’t just sit at home and wait. What are you doing with that?” She pointed at the grocery list of items, which he’d turned over so that the strange schedule with its bizarre codes faced up.

“You know what this is?”

“Sure, it’s a bundle label.”

“A what?”

“A bundle label. The carriers get one each day with their newspapers. See, it shows the route number, the carrier’s code number, how many papers there are to deliver, what inserts-if any-and the starts and stops.”

Nick jumped out of his chair and came around to her side of the desk.

“Can you tell whose it is and what day it’s for?”

“It looks like it was for Sunday, October 19. The carrier’s code is ALV0436. From the addresses listed on the starts and stops, it looks like…” The realization swept over her face. She looked up at Nick with wide eyes. “This is Danny Alverez’s route. It’s for the Sunday he disappeared. Where did you find this, Nick?”

When darkness came, it came quickly. Despite Timmy’s efforts to remain calm, the inevitable prospect of the long, dark night ahead destroyed his defenses.

He had spent the day trying to come up with an escape plan or at least a way to send a distress signal. It certainly wasn’t as easy as they made it look in the movies. Still, that helped him stay focused. He thought of Batman and Luke Skywalker. And Han Solo, who was his favorite.

The stranger had brought him Flash Gordon and Superman comic books. Yet, even equipped with the knowledge and secrets of all those superheroes, Timmy still couldn’t escape. After all, he was a small, skinny ten year old. But on the soccer field, he had learned to use his smallness to his advantage, sneaking under and through other players. Maybe strength wasn’t what he needed.

It was too hard to think with the dark swallowing up corners of the room. He could see that the lantern had very little kerosene left, so he needed to hold off lighting it for as long as possible. But already the panic crawled over him in shivers.

He considered the kerosene heater. Perhaps he could drain kerosene from it for the lantern. Gusts of wind still knocked at the-boarded window, rattling slats and sneaking through the cracks. Without the heater he might freeze before morning. No, as much as he hated to admit it, he needed the heater more than he needed the light.

He replayed scenes from Star Wars in his mind, repeating dialogue out loud to keep himself occupied. He squeezed the lighter, reminding himself that he did have control over the darkness. Every once in a while he flicked it on and off, on and off. But the darkness wasn’t the only enemy. The silence was almost as unsettling.

All day he forced himself to listen for voices, for barking dogs or car engines, for church bells or emergency sirens. Other than a distant train whistle and one jet overhead, he had heard nothing. Where in the world was he?

He had even tried yelling until his throat hurt, only to be answered by violent gusts of wind, scolding him. It was much too quiet. Wherever he was, he had the feeling it was far, far away from anyone who could help him.

Something skidded across the floor, a click-click of tiny nails on the wood. His heart pounded and the shivering took over. He flicked on the lighter, but couldn’t see anything. Finally, he gave in. Without leaving the bed, he reached over to the crate and lit the lantern. Immediately its yellow glow filled the room. He should have felt relief. Instead, he curled up again into a tight ball, pulling the covers to his chin. And for the first time since his dad had left town, Timmy allowed himself to cry.

She was smart, despite all the curves. Definitely a worthy adversary. But he wondered how much Special Agent Maggie O’Dell really knew and how much was just a game. It didn’t matter. He enjoyed games. They took his mind off the throbbing.

No one noticed him as he walked down the sterile hallways. Those who did, nodded and scurried past. His presence was accepted here as easily as anywhere in the community. He fit in, though it was here-out in the open-that he wore another mask, one he couldn’t just peel off like rubber.

He took the stairs. Today even the stairwells smelled of ammonia, immaculately scrubbed. It reminded him of his mother, down on her lovely hands and knees, quietly scrubbing the kitchen floor, often at two and three in the morning, while his stepfather had slept. Her delicate hands had turned red and raw from the pressure and harsh liquid. How many times had he silently watched without her knowing? Those stifled sobs and frantic swipes had been spent as though her secret early-morning ritual would somehow clean up the mess she had made of her life.

Now, here he was, so many years later, trying to clean up his own life, scrubbing out the visions of his past with his own secret rituals. How many more killings would be enough to wipe out the image of that sniveling, helpless boy from his childhood?

The door slammed shut behind him. He had been here before and found comfort in the familiar surroundings. Somewhere above, a fan wheezed. Otherwise there was silence, appropriate silence for this temporary tomb.

He snapped on the surgical gloves. Which will it be? Drawer number one, two or three? Perhaps four or five? He chose number three, pulling and wincing at the scrape of metal, but pleased to see he had been correct.

The black body bag looked so small on the long silver bed. He unzipped it carefully, reverently, tucking and folding it to the sides of the small gray body. The coroner’s surgical wounds- precise slices and cuts-disgusted him, as did the puncture marks he, himself, had administered. Matthew’s poor, little body resembled a road map. Matthew, however, was gone-to a much better place. Someplace free of pain and humiliation. Free of loneliness and abandonment. Yes, he had seen to it that Matthew’s eternal rest would be peaceful. He could remain an innocent child forever.